Someone nudges me awake at dawn. My eyes still hurt and feel swollen as I blink them open.
“Ivaia and Liriene are waiting.” Not the most pleasant words to wake to.
“And Silas,” I take Riordan’s hand and allow him to pull me up.
“You slept out here all night? Isn’t that dangerous?” He asks.
“The combination of Liriene and Ivaia is more dangerous. I didn’t want to be home.”
We stay for a moment, watching the water. I think of the little girl lost, blinded, and aflame with agony on the other side of my dreams.
“I haven’t seen this river in a while. I usually avoid it,” Riordan says.
“I wish I could but it’s her grave.”
“Not only hers,” he says.
“I’m assuming everyone’s getting ready for the ceremonies?” I ask.
“Preparations are almost complete. Silas is wasting no breath. He had people up all night organizing this.”
“They’re giving me to him, Rio. Like a prized cow.”
He laughs under his breath. “They did the same to your mother and Ivaia.”
I shoot him an incredulous look. “More accurately, they gave me to her. To be her knight protector. Silas has been training with Indiro for this his entire life. To be made ready to serve you. He’s been to court. I know of the boy. He’s not someone to take as a husband lightly.”
I shrug my shoulders, never having heard someone speak of Silas like that. I didn’t expect Riordan to compliment Indiro either.
“That makes him right for me?” I ask.
He doesn’t seem to know how to respond.
“Do I search for a certain look in his eye? Will time slow or some force like magic lead me to the realization? When will I know? How will I know if he is the right choice? Do I even have a choice?” I know the answers to these questions, but it feels good to voice them. I pull my hair back, braiding it so it’s not in my face anymore. Every fly-away strand seems to find my eyes and I forget about the scratches and keep rubbing at the torn skin. Riordan watches me for a few breaths before speaking.
“Love is a peculiar beast. One that can change its scales and hide in the most unseemly places. You’ll know it only when you step back. When you stop trying to predict its patterns and moods and shades. One day you will look into its eyes and feel its heart. You’ll know.”
“I know then.”
“What?” He asks.
“That I do not love Silas.”
Rio sighs and offers me a sad smile.
“What’s the story with you two? You and Indiro, I mean.” I leap over the gap in conversation.
Riordan skirts around my question with a brazen smile. “You in a wedding dress will be a sight for sore eyes.” He nudges me.
I roll my sore eyes and chuckle. “Fine, don’t tell me.”
“Don’t want to give you grief on your big day,” He chides.
“My ‘big day’ is the thing giving me grief.”
He takes me by the shoulders. "There are worse lots in life than marrying someone who’s sworn to protect you. No one could have predicted what would happen to you and your mother. She wrote that letter before your birth and ensured that no matter what happened to her, you would have someone by your side. Besides, these are more perilous times and the costs much higher. The civil war in the Sunderlands has escalated to a degree she and nobody else saw coming.
“Or maybe she did and that’s why she wrote the letter.”
We both think on that.
“Either way, think of Silas as a comrade or a partner.”
“Is that how you and Ivaia have made it this far?” I ask.
“That and a lot of jasmine tea.” He smiles roguishly. An aphrodisiac. Got it.
“We should get going.”
He delivers me to the threshold of the Weaver’s tent. He says Liriene and Ivaia are inside and wishes me luck before hurrying off to my home tent. I wish I could crawl back to the river — drown in it for good. Instead, I step through the door and am nearly blinded by candlelight.
“Are all these lights really necessary?” I squint through my swollen, now fried eyes.
“Better to see your imperfections so I might remedy them,” The haggard woman croaks. I glaze over her all too eager tone.
“Good morning, Attica,” I nod to the Weaver who’s dressed me my entire life.
Liriene and Ivaia are at the table drinking their morning herbal brew.
“You look like shit,” Ivaia blows on her hot tea, steam spilling over the brim. Liriene raises a perfectly arched brow at our aunt, lips puckered at the edge of her teacup.
“Nothing I cannot fix,” The Weaver welcomes me deeper into the tent. I follow her through a forest of fabrics. Strands of ribbon drip from shelves lined with spools of dyed thread. A rainbow of colors is wound up into neat, workable skeins. Scissors and fabric knives of all sizes, and strips of leather marked for measuring, are all strewn over a massive, u-shaped table. She has me step up onto a small wooden stool between either side of the table and begins plucking my clothes from me. She strips me down and lays my clothes out on the table. I work to keep myself covered with my hands.
“Coroner, this’ll be needing mending.” She pokes a finger through the shoulder of my top, where King Arias injured me.
Ivaia and Liriene couldn’t care less that I’m standing in the center of the room on a pedestal, in nothing but gooseflesh.
“Alright, Attica.”
The Weaver circles around me, making my attempts to cover my body useless. “Are you a maiden?” She snaps. I hear Ivaia and Liriene pause their conversation.
“Yes,” I breathe.
“Good.” She snaps her fingers and disappears into the menagerie of lace and silk. She flings tufts of mesh and garters over the room divider. I stand there, attempting to keep my “maidenhood” intact, and focus on my shadow cast by the candlelight. Limbs bent at ghastly angles and my figure elongated. My shadow looks broken.
Finally, she emerges with a parcel in her hands. She slices a sinister scissor through the red thread binding it, unfolds the paper, and holds up a sparse, red lacy thing. A second piece follows it in her other hand; the whole width of it pinched between her spindly fingers. She places the scarce undergarments in my hands, forcing me to let my breasts go.
I tug the wisps of fabric onto my body, adjusting my full bosom into the feather-strong hold of the lace. There are no straps to support the weight of my breasts, and I fail to see the point of the garment. My nipples point like arrowheads against the sheer fabric, and I bet if I get any colder, they’ll cut through the flimsy thing. I step into the matching bottoms, pulling it up over my flared hips.
She tweaks the edges of the flirtatious ruffles at my tail and sighs. “Dainty little thing. The best part of wearing clothes is getting undressed. Your husband will appreciate this tonight.” She claps her hands.
Liriene almost snorts her tea out of her nose and starts coughing as Ivaia’s glittering laugh heats my skin.
“Now, now! Maybe I should loan her the book, after all. You look like you might need it, Ker,” Ivaia says.
“You’ll do no such thing,” Liriene hisses.
“What book?” I turn, still attempting to cover up what the garments fail to. The Weaver dives once more into a sea of parcels and garments.
“A holy book,” Ivaia wiggles her eyebrows.
“That book is the damnedest thing on the earth,” Liriene argues. “Written by a man, no doubt.”
“Oh, no, fool.” Ivaia places her steaming teacup in her lap. “Books like that are most definitely written by women.”
Turning, I make eye contact with Attica as she brings out a heavy, wrapped garment I can only assume is the gown. Liriene shrieks and dashes over to the old woman’s side, spilling tea as she goes. “Oh! It’ll be such a relief to see something beautiful again.”
I see lace and tulle and am instantly terrified this gown will resemble Ivaia’s usual garb. Attic
a pulls the full length of the dress out and holds it up before me. I gasp. “Mother’s dress.”
“Yes! Its beauty reminds me of her. And the best parts of you. The more delicate side I know is still somewhere beneath the dirt under your nails—”
“And the blood on my hands?”
She frowns. “Yes, deep under that, too.” She puts her hands on her hips and her smile gets a second wind. “I knew it had to be your wedding gown.” She bows, flourishing her long blue skirts before returning to her seat by Ivaia. The Weaver helps me step under it and pulls it down over my head. I don’t know how my mother dressed at court but among her kin in the forest, her clothes were plain. Neutral colors and soft fabrics. She never even put flowers in her hair like the other females. This dress looks like it belonged to someone else. Someone with a shocking flair for fashion. Someone royal. I recognize it because it once lay in a chest beside father’s bed. Neighbor to moths and memories.
The neckline sits off my shoulders. It clings to my ribs and upper arms by a band of elastic gray lace that covers me from collarbone to mid breastbone. The scarlet lace bralette beneath the gray, gasps out in frayed accents over my cleavage. Attica tucks every loose hint of what’s beneath the gown back under the dress.
“Some things must be flaunted, some hinted, and some things must be a pleasant surprise.”
From the bottom edge of the gray lace down to my feet, a gauzy flowing sheath pours over my curves, whispering around the edges. Delicate as spiderwebs, white as snow. The Weaver leads me to a tall looking glass. Liriene helps her with my hair, tying it back into a loose, simple braid. Ivaia deposits heavy silver dangle earrings into my lobes, and a golden flower-shaped pin into my hair.
Liriene paints rouge to my lips, patting a lighter pink balm into my cheeks. I watch her lips curve as she focuses. Ivaia takes a turn at beautifying me, pressing a tinted powder into the discolored areas around my eyes. Then makes the same efforts with the wound on my shoulder from the Gryphon talon. She arms herself with a thin brush and paints thin black lines above my lashes.
“It’ll distract from the scratches.”
Last, she spritzes a heady perfume onto my throat and wrists. I am clean and put together to say the least. My eyes are not as swollen as they were when I woke. I do not feel even a bit more special because I’m wearing my mother’s dress. She’s the one who forced me into it — along with her sister and mine. Is it ominous to wear a dead bride’s wedding gown?
Dawn has blossomed into an effeminate morning with pink and gold skies and whipped, frothy clouds. An audience has gathered in the grass beyond the tent. Liriene disappears from my side, brushing a kiss to my cheek as she goes. Ivaia’s somewhere in the crowd. My father is at the head of it all, and beside him are Indiro and Silas.
One look at the path before me and my feet go stiff as a corpse. I ignore the hushed crowd as they swivel their heads. Everyone's craning to see me from their places on the ground, sprawled out on blankets and woven mats. Focusing on my breathing, I try to take a step. Someone coughs their impatience and my temper flares. But I can’t look for the offender in the mass of people. I can’t look up. I can’t move.
A hand grips me beneath my elbow and warmth returns to my body. My knees unlock and I lean into that saving grace of a touch. My eyes meet with Lysandra’s. A moment of unexpected weakness threatens to wash away my painted face. Katrielle and Hayes were to wed, but instead of her walking down this path she’s buried near the end.
“I will never have the chance to give my daughter to her love, but I will walk with you,” Lysandra says.
I take her hand, tucking her arm beneath mine, and we lean on each other for the full walk down the aisle of flowers and fake smiles. I kiss both her cheeks before she leaves me at the foot of the altar.
For the first time, I give Silas my attention. His sandy hair has been swept into a careful style. Triumph swirls in his honey-brown eyes. His back is straight, and he clasps his hands behind his back. The same way he stands on guard duty. He's dressed in a dark gray patterned tunic with long, belled sleeves and sateen trousers. A jeweled blade is holstered to his hip on a silver chain belt.
He holds out a gold ring. A marvelous ruby is perched atop the wedding band. My eyes do not shy away from the size, hue, and sparkle of the gem. I’m always in the mood for that color. I stop gawking and look at Silas. His lips part with a smile as he drinks in the vision of me.
A couple of days ago, this moment would have made me glow. Now, his smile makes me wonder if he’s glad to finally own me. If I close my eyes, I can still see his face twisted with hurt and anger. The spit flying from his mouth as he threatened to have me burned. My stomach drops to my toes as he takes my hand. The thought of his right to claim me grates me when each of his fingers touch my skin.
“Children,” My father holds his hands up between us. I look to him and catch his eyes on me. Indiro quirks a brow at me, eyes pouring over the length of my dress. He smirks and turns toward Liriene who I realize is now behind my left arm. She turns rosy with pride.
“We come before each other and the Gods to witness the union of these two souls.”
I scan the front row of faces and find Ivaia wiping a tear from her crystalline eyes. Riordan flashes me one of his unconvincing smiles. Lysandra is beside them, patting her eyes with a handkerchief. My father drawls on about responsibility and patience, love and joy.
A gentle breeze tousles the gown, proving the thin long sleeves useless. That silly fear about my nipples stabbing through the lace drags my eyes down to my chest for a quick check.
Kaius talks of knights and princesses and other obsolete novelties as my attention slips back into the crowd. An array of faces stare at me as if they truly know me or are happy for me. Lucius’ father is here, a perfectly odd example of why I’m shocked at the size of the audience, since he tried to blame me for the death of the nine. The Vigilants that failed the nine are here to celebrate as if they have the right to, including Chamira. Even the Weaver came to see her fine work on display. All the faces moon at me. I remember their contorted expressions of anger a few days ago when they cursed me. Now, all of them sigh at our feigned romance. All except one.
A head or two taller than most in the crowd, his dark brown curls are bound in a knot atop his head. Wide set shoulders and his sumptuous lips are dressed in a mocking smile that frays at the edges when we make eye contact. Fire jumps into those coal eyes and my face heats.
I look back to Silas as he decorates my finger with the ring. He’s muttering something but there’s a roaring of blood in my ears. My heart pounds against the frail lace and gauze. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing as my head fills with thoughts of the river. I feel as if my lungs are full of water. Mother. Darius. Me. I hate that she’s forcing me to marry Silas. Even dead people have more control over my life than I do. I hate myself for being me. I wish I could run out of my own skin. Be someone else, love someone else.
I turn back to my father and watch the words form on his mouth until I can hear them again.
“And so, daughter, I give you to Silas.” He turns toward my husband.
“Silas, I give you my treasure, my youngest daughter. Do well to honor the gifts you receive this day. Swear to love and serve each other until Mrithyn takes one or the other.”
Silas swears it and I mutter an agreement, thinking of Riordan’s advice. An ache boils in my stomach and my palms turn watery. I hate the sensation of sweaty palms — it reminds me of all the blood on my hands. The ruby stares at me, a single drop of all I’ve shed. Too soon, Silas takes me in his arms and brings his mouth toward mine. He stops a breath away and waits. I close my eyes and meet his kiss with a tentative touch.
At first, the kiss is nothing like the possessive one he claimed from me by the river before our hunt together. But then reality hits. He is like a stranger to me and my chains have been handed to him. I grab him by the back of his neck and kiss him harder, searching for that promised safety o
n his tongue. Trying to take control of something. The right choice? No choice.
He wraps an arm around my waist and dips me low to the ground, finishing the kiss with a passionate flourish.
The crowd cheers, music flits into the air, and entirely new fears overrun my mind. The sun creeps higher into the sky. Soon it will be noon. Which means it’s almost evening. Which means I’ll soon face the horror of my wedding night. My mind races through the day, predicting every outcome. Whether I stay or run away now, it’s too late and I know it. Here or anywhere, I’m fucking sold and owned. Even the Death Spirit whimpers within me.
Silas sets me back on my feet, keeping an arm around me as the festivities begin. I look at him and that victorious expression of his crumbles into worry. Slipping through the crowd with me in tow, he leads me to a tent on the outskirts of the camp. Music is the only thing that follows us, but I swear I feel a set of burning eyes tracking my every step as my husband leads me away.
He stops at the entryway, holding back the curtain and giving me the freedom to cross the threshold. I run into the darkness of the tent, my lungs about to burst through my chest as I struggle for air. He follows me in and watches me pace the room. Hands pressed into my ribs; I reeducate myself on the art of breathing.
I realize this dwelling was set up for us. Most of my belongings are here. A newlywed couple’s new home. A firepit, unlit, in the center of the room. A long dining table and in the back of the room — Don’t look. Again, my breathing becomes labored. Fuck, I’ve just expedited the thing I was trying to avoid.
His hands on my shoulders make my body go rigid. He turns me to face him, placing a finger underneath my chin. One look into his eyes and I decide we better get this over with. I kiss him. Hard. The scent and taste of him ravages my senses. I lose all hopes of my first time being with Darius. This kiss doesn’t leave sparks on my tongue but is a clash of hot breath. It keeps my thoughts at bay, my fear — my anger.
“Keres,” He pulls away.
“No.” I grab him by his tunic, my hands looking for the ends of it and I lift it up over his head to reveal creamy skin and abs sleek as alabaster. He pushes me back, spinning me around to find the laces on the back of my dress.
The Sunderlands Page 16
